


Stillness

by ianavi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, BAMF John Watson, Caring John, Caring Sherlock, Comfort, Confused Sherlock, Duvet Fic, Engagement, Fear, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hospitals, Insecure Sherlock, Insomnia, Intercrural Sex, John's Scent, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Mirrors, Oral Sex, Orgasm, Partnership, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock in Love, Snow, Spooning, Sunburn, Tea, Touching, Understanding John, Virgin Sherlock, Wet Dream, foot kissing, minor injury, snoring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:32:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 18,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7012789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianavi/pseuds/ianavi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nights were impossible. The stillness of the flat and his own inner turmoil. </p><p>Again, as he'd done for the past three nights, Sherlock stood at the door, one hand on the wooden frame. Listening. In terror. In shame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Soft puttering about the kitchen, shuffling of teaspoons in the drawer, the creak of the refrigerator door opening. A calm, ordinary Sunday afternoon at the end of a week of no cases, no deductions, no running about the city or snippy exchanges with his brother.

He should have been crawling out of his skin with boredom, throwing fits, shooting the wall, breaking glassware!

Curled into himself on the sofa, wrapped in a dressing gown, his back onto the room, Sherlock was outwardly still. Still. But on the inside, he trembled.

Not bored. Far from bored. Sherlock was, simply and profoundly, terrified.

It had been a simple, utterly unengaging, case. He'd only accepted Lestrade's call to get out of the flat and stretch his legs a bit. Fraud. Money. The owner's cousin. Tedious.

After he's correctly identified the man and cornered him in the alley behind the jeweller's shop he realised he'd miscalculated. A flash of steel. A scream. John.

He watched John fall. The man ran away but Sherlock made no move to follow him. He made no move towards John's prone body, rain drenching his jacket, his blond hair, one foot at an awkward angle. He didn't feel his own knees hitting the pavement.

Water boiling and the kettle switching off. The rustling of a pack of biscuits being opened. Feet on linoleum. It was fine, it was all fine. Sherlock managed an hour of sleep on the sofa.

Nights were impossible. The stillness of the flat and his own inner turmoil.

Again, as he'd done for the past three nights, Sherlock stood at the door, one hand on the wooden frame. Listening. In terror. In shame.

John hadn't been hurt. Jumping away from the knife he'd slipped on the wet pavement and fallen flat on his face as their suspect, now confirmed culprit, fled. It had lasted a moment. A moment Sherlock had been suspended in horror.

Listening. For a breath, a snore, a shifting of cotton sheets.

He was two steps into the room before he'd realised what he'd done. Steady breaths, the rhythm of the duvet's slight movement. He stood, eyes closed, and listened to John. Unhurt, alive, sleeping. He managed two hours of sleep on the sofa that morning. Then several hours of anxious violin screeching until John returned from the surgery, late, a plastic shop bag in hand, and set about loudly complaining about the noise of the violin, the unending rain, the chip and pin machine.

Sherlock dropped his bow, sunk into his armchair and promptly, pots banging and steady stream of curses, fell asleep.

It was just a matter of time before he got caught. The street light illuminated the room with a low glow.

"Sherlock?"

He swayed on his feet just a step from John's bed.

"Is it a case?"

He whimpered. Audibly. He could lie about it being a case. 

John sat up in his bed. "Are you alright?" Then moved to get up, his voice firm. "Did you take something?"

"Y-y-you..." He stuttered, one hand reaching.

"Come here." John moved towards the wall and gestured to the space next to him.

Embarrassment.

Sherlock bit down a sob as he sat heavily on the edge of the mattress, pulling his hand back to his chest.

"Are you ill?" John simultaneously placed the back of one hand on his forehead and reached to take his pulse with the other. Exhausted, terrified, ashamed, Sherlock sunk into his arms and started sobbing.

"Alright, alright, come here."

It took a while. How long, he couldn't tell. John was on his back, Sherlock sprawled across his chest and fisting his shirt. An arm around his waist and a steady scrape of fingers against the base of his skull. He'd cried. John's shirt was wet under his face.

Tips of fingers moving through his hair. Slow, steady pressure. And again. Unwavering strokes against his scalp, skin of the back of his neck. Measure of breaths. Calloused fingertips. Moving against skin. Stroke, and again. Again. He shivered. Then settled back with a sigh. A repeating pattern. A caress. And again. Warmth. Breath.

He'd never felt so... calm. He slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may or may not go on to have more chapters. If it does, check rating and tags. Needed some comfort and calm myself...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once had been incidental. Forgettable. Not that he would ever forget. Twice would be a commencement of a pattern. A blatant neediness. Twice would necessitate an explanation in the morning.

A difficult case. A curious post-mortem. An exhausting chase. And a tiresome press conference to attend.

He hadn't slept in days. Hadn't eaten. Well, there had been coffee and John shoving that sandwich into his hand yesterday with an eloquent grunt.

The expected drop in adrenaline. He'd taken a long hot shower to ease the sense of sleep into his aching muscles.

It was long past midnight and hours since John had climbed the stairs to crash into his own bed. Sherlock stood in the dark hallway. The dripping of the bath tap. Low hum of the city that surrounded them.

He stood at the threshold of his bedroom and looked at the pristine bed, Frette linens in gray, eiderdown pillows he'd chosen with care.

No need to disturb John just because he had no wish to lie in that bed. So he played a composition they both found soothing. Andantino. And yet his heart raced.

Once had been incidental. Forgettable. Not that he would ever forget. Twice would be a commencement of a pattern. A blatant neediness. Twice would necessitate an explanation in the morning. The dreaded talk he'd managed to avoid so far. He picked up the bow to test out another pensive slow movement he hadn't played in years.

"Hold still, please."

"I've never been more still in my life, John." His teeth clattered and this attempt to remain dignified through the stitches had failed miserably.

John worked in tense silence tying off the last of the knots.

He'd slipped, that was all. "It was an accident."

"Yeah, the kind of accident that's textbook as a result of reduced motor performance and alertness..." John's voice was tight but his touch almost too gentle as he wrapped Sherlock's hand in gauze bandage.

Sherlock tested his hand and winced at the pain.

Getting up to clear the table John took another hard look at him. "You can have some ibuprofen." A pause. "And something to help you get some sleep finally."

Sherlock looked away. As if there was pertinent information to be found in the piled-up sink.

Three seconds.

That's how long it lasted. John's hand reaching for him, warm palm at the back of his neck, fingers just grazing his hairline. "Do get some sleep tonight. I'm taking a quick shower and turning in myself."

He stayed sitting on the kitchen chair and holding his bandaged hand in his lap for over two hours. Then he climbed the stairs in a daze.

The door creaked. It had never done so before. So he stood, one foot inside the room, obvious. John shifted under the duvet and woke.

"It's alright..." His voice was low as he moved aside on the bed.

Sherlock quickly shuffled to the bed and got under the covers but then stilled, uncertain. With a sigh John simply pulled him into an embrace.

John was very warm and smelled of soap and cheap laundry detergent. Sherlock, face firmly planted against John's shoulder, took another deep breath. His hand touched a cotton-covered, muscled thigh. His fingers twitched. Unlike that first time he was frightfully aware of every detail, every point of contact, their disparate heart rates - John's steady, his own a stutter. The thread count of John's sheets. The passing of the N74 bus. The temperature of the room. The throbbing of the stitches on the side of his left palm. John's minty toothpaste, traces of it on his shirt. The coarse hairs under the thin cotton of John's pyjama bottoms. The arm around his waist, relaxed, pleasingly heavy.

"Sleep now." He did.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Come on, bed." John tugged at Sherlock's wrist and he got up to follow. Up the stairs. John's room. John's bed.

There was no fretful talk in the morning. Well, John did insist on the bowl of oatmeal, ground flax seed had been mentioned, bribing him with a spoonful of honey. But this was a weekly or fortnightly occurrence, accompanied with brief commentary on diet and fibre and healthy weight. Sherlock typically tuned it all out. Now he listened with care.

John finished his tea pulling his jacket on, concerned he was running late and would Sherlock text about dinner, thai takeaway perhaps, were they out of digestives or milk, something about the power bill. He then left for the surgery.

Sherlock climbed up the stairs and stood at the doorway looking at the bed. One didn't need to be brilliant to deduce two people had slept in it. The bed screamed it, pillow indents and dust patterns on the hardwood floor.

He solved three cold cases for Lestrade by noon and spent two hours contemplating John's behaviour. Although, it wasn't John's behaviour that was uncharacteristic. 

He'd slept a full six hours last night.

He'd woken to sounds from the kitchen downstairs and John's shirt crumpled next to the pillows. Had he dressed for work as Sherlock slept nearby? One of the dresser drawers had been opened, the one holding John's frightfully unmatched disarray of socks.

Oatmeal. Socks.

Sherlock showed a client in, pulled a chair from the kitchen. A tedious academic with a lisp and a complete misunderstanding of Muybridge's relation to industrialisation. He solved the case before the man had sputtered through his third digression. Then he deposited the man's cheque next to the power bill John had gravely placed in the middle of the kitchen table. The sum was more than adequate, threefold in fact.

Nothing at the morgue.

A text from Lestrade: "Piss off."

John did bring back thai. There was a television programme on BBC he was reluctant to miss so they ate as John watched it and laughed and sipped from a beer bottle as Sherlock observed him.

He spent the next two nights in his own bed contemplating its faults. The laundry service he used had precise instructions on the starching and ironing. The scent was somehow off.

A few hours sleep and, luckily, finally, a proper case with the Yard on the third morning. His brother had appeared in Lestrade's office looking concerned, the left corner of his lips pinched uncharacteristically. The royals then. He demanded a refund for the taxi and his wasted time. The blasted baroness and the polo match. Any man who wasn't a complete idiot could have deduced it in nine minutes. So Sherlock took three, which included several choice expletives.

After being thrown out by an irritated Lestrade he decided to take a walk. Walks could be conducive to analysis of data that demanded his attention.

"Where have you been?!"

John was home. His mobile, on the kitchen table, clearly used in the last hour. Sherlock could not deduce the reason for his alarmed tone.

"I walked home."

"You walked?!"

He hung up his coat and scarf, took off his shoes. John was alarmed he'd taken a walk.

"It's two o'clock! You left the Yard seven bloody hours ago!"

That was true. He looked around the flat, only one lamp was on.

"Is this about the power bill?"

John looked pained, he brought one hand to rub at his eyes. "Go to bed now. We'll talk in the morning."

John walked up the stairs slowly. The door of his bedroom closed behind him.

Sherlock sat in his armchair and closed his eyes, a couple of hours to sift through some information he might need to reference in the future...

A hand wrapped around his wrist and he startles to see John, worn white shirt and navy boxers, looking sleepy and slightly annoyed.

"Come on, bed." He tugged at Sherlock's wrist and he got up to follow. Up the stairs. John's room. John's bed.

His trousers and socks off but his shirt firmly buttoned at the wrists, Sherlock sighed against John's chest. This was the most dangerous thing he'd ever attempted. Doomed to failure, surely. He'd need to examine... 

John pulled him in tighter as he snored lightly. Sherlock slept a full eight hours.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They each took a long shower and waited for the Chinese takeaway to arrive in silence. John looked at his bare feet on the carpet. Sherlock attempted to close his eyes but couldn't. 
> 
> There was no awkward negotiation that evening, no denial. 
> 
> As John got up to climb to his room, Sherlock simply followed.

He'd spent several long hours with the habitually accommodating, and yet still irritating, pathologist. A drowning. Traces of an insecticide on an office worker's hand. Clear signs of an autonomic nerve issue, also a problem with the skeletal muscle cells. He could smell a trace something, sweet and cloying, but could not identify it.

The wait for the tests to come back. He'd drank too much coffee. Contemplated going back to the flat briefly to think in peace, but then decided to visit the victim's office. He texted Lestrade to make arrangements. Far too much coffee.

Scrapes of nail polish-covered fingernails on the keyboard. A repeated pattern. A nail file in the bottom drawer next to a half-empty bottle of polish remover, 'with coconut oil for healthy nails'. It was her supervisor, they'd been having an affair. The missing nail polish. The lab tests would confirm it in the morning. Lestrade thanked him.

People had affairs. Even though they were involved with someone else. Was it boredom? Need for a life more exciting than a double monitor view of spreadsheets and flowcharts, the coordinated curtains and carpeting, the school run, the choice between thirty different low-fat yoghurts? Sentiment?

As the taxi pulled up to Baker Street Sherlock felt slightly agitated. It was the coffee.

John was away at a conference. The flat was empty. Far too quiet. All the windows were tightly closed. The air stood still.

Sherlock, coat, scarf and shoes still on, sat in his armchair and watched the empty one opposite. There was a cheap paperback on the side table and he reached for it. A thriller. Didn't John have enough thrills in his life with Sherlock? He started on the first page.

Sixty seven pages, and another cup of coffee later, plus some of the biscuits John had strategically placed on the kitchen table, Sherlock was in the middle of a surprisingly detailed description of a man performing cunilingus. John's bookmark was between pages eighty two and eighty three so he must have read it. Sherlock checked the break in the book's spine.

And then he remembered John shifting in his chair while reading two days ago. And leaving the book abruptly to make some tea. Half an hour earlier than was his Saturday afternoon custom. Sherlock had noticed but had not given it his full attention.

He hadn't taken the book with him. A conference. People frequently used conferences as opportunity for affairs. He returned the book to the coffee table.

"Is something wrong with my mouth?" John asked. He'd stared too long but there were no marks besides the evidence of John's habitual lip licking. "Heard you solved a murder while I was gone, a torrid love affair between coworkers, was it? Yeah, I've had a great time too, an update on meningococcal meningitis and other vaccinations available for overseas travelers, thanks for asking." John's feet on the stairs, bag on edge of mattress, a drawer opening.

He distracted himself with the violin for a while, whilst inevitably replaying the images of John's mouth, lips, tip of tongue.

The next case took too long. Too many days, too many nights, too many hurt and trafficked children. He'd stopped sleeping, and by the end of it all so had John.

They each took a long shower and waited for the Chinese takeaway to arrive in silence. John looked at his bare feet on the carpet. Sherlock attempted to close his eyes but couldn't.

There was no awkward negotiation that evening, no denial.

As John got up to climb to his room, Sherlock simply followed.

He draped his dressing gown on the headboard of the bed and climbed under the duvet as John switched off the bedside lamp.

They lay in silence for several minutes, facing each other but apart in the dark. Then a warm calloused hand wrapped around his own and Sherlock felt some of the tension dissipate.

A thumb circled over his knuckles, fingers slid up to wrap around his wrist. The window was cracked open and he heard London's traffic in the distance. Sherlock closed the distance between them and pressed his face against John's chest.

Immediately, a full embrace. Fingers on the back of his neck, pushing into the curls of his hair. Huffs of breath against his temple. The steady sound of John's heartbeat. The familiar smell of his skin, his body, his bed.

"Thank you." His low voice was surely lost in the wrinkles of John's worn shirt.

The hand on the low of his back pulled him closer. Sherlock finally closed his eyes and slept.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John had changed the linens this morning and was now scrubbing the bath and humming a popular tune to himself, apparently relaxed and in a good mood. While Sherlock felt a drop of sweat trail down the middle of his back, now at the point of the curvature of the lumbar. 
> 
> There had been toast and butter, then more tea, while the used linens sat in a pile at the bottom of the stairs leading to John's room with several towels thrown on the top. 
> 
> Will fresh linens mean Sherlock's banishment from John's bed? Was it a sign of conclusion?

Nine. He thought of the number, the numeral, the curves of it written down in his own handwriting, in John's, the count to reach it. Nine. The number of consecutive nights he'd slept in John's bed, under John's duvet, wrapped in John's arms.

Nine. Also the incredible number of hours of sleep he had last night. Until waking to the sound of the kettle boiling and switching off downstairs, the sound of a teaspoon against the side of the saucer, three stirs, as was the man's habit.

His face was glued to the ocular of his microscope but he was not looking through the lenses at the slide. Had forgotten what the slide even was.

Will John finally say something? His silence on the matter had initially been a relief, but after nine consecutive nights Sherlock found it disquieting.

John had changed the linens this morning and was now scrubbing the bath and humming a popular tune to himself, apparently relaxed and in a good mood. While Sherlock felt a drop of sweat trail down the middle of his back, now at the point of the curvature of the lumbar.

There had been toast and butter, then more tea, while the used linens sat in a pile at the bottom of the stairs leading to John's room with several towels thrown on the top.

Will fresh linens mean Sherlock's banishment from John's bed? Was it a sign of conclusion?

He didn't have a chance to find out.

Lestrade called just before noon. An apparent customer grievance that turned into a violent attack on an employee of a global telecommunications company. They had the woman listed as a difficult customer, frequent technical issues and late night complaints.

It wasn't as simple as a random choice for retaliation, of course. There was something about the employee... The man owned three antique pinball machines.

And what about the woman? What?!

It took Sherlock two sleepless nights on the sofa, some frankly illegal searches of the NHS databases and countless cups of coffee to find out another detail. He'd missed the signs at first. Had it not been for one of John's offhand comments...

"... not even for menstrual pain? No tablets at all?"

But no, that wasn't all of it, he still missed something.

He paced the sitting room, agitated, tired. He picked up the violin but remembered John had gone to bed. Remembered... as if John's presence in that inexplicably inviting bed was not something he was acutely aware of. Constantly.

The pacing, the missing tablets, the printouts pinned to the wall and the pen out of place. The pinball machines. Whose pen was it?! What were the numbers in the margin of her Sunday paper? Why couldn't he figure this out? Three taxies passed down in the street in quick succession, atypical for the late hour. His stomach made itself known. A cat, somewhere, on a roof. He ignored it, tried to ignore it all. Whose pen?

Frustrated with the unresolved query, he kicked off his shoes to the corner of the room and ran his hands through the already messy curls.

Sherlock stilled in the middle of the sitting room, determined to quiet his mind and solve this damn case.

And he heard, muffled by distance, a snore.

He eyed the hallway with a scowl.

Just...

Just a brief reprieve. To settle his thoughts. To help him focus.

In moments, trousers and socks off, Sherlock was sliding under the covers next to John's sleeping form.

The man did not stir, a low snore.

So he edged closer, and a bit more, until his side was pressed against the curve of John's spine. Warm, slightly damp with sweat, face half buried in his pillow. A solid snore. And, to Sherlock's delight, unshowered.

John had began showering in the evenings, perhaps under the misapprehension it was the polite thing to do when sharing a bed with another. And as much as Sherlock now acquainted the smell of John's supermarket brand shampoo with warm hands and a steady heartbeat, he preferred the familiar scent of John's skin, and the traces of the day it bore. Endless cups of tea and the disinfectant they used at the surgery were child's play, but a visit to a bookstore or an afternoon snack of peanut brittle - small triumphs in olfactory deduction.

Sherlock curved carefully against John's back, pressing closer, fitting himself against the back of thighs, navel to vertebral column, face to scarred shoulder.

He sighed with relief and allowed his breathing to slow to John's rhythm, allowed the tips of one hand to trace the edge of the man's shirt.

The world around them, the noise, the distraction, finally disappeared and Sherlock found calm. The now softer snores continued and Sherlock smiled and exhaled. 

It took only nine minutes. Nine.

Of course! The number! It was during a reading of her gas meter, a simple misunderstanding that led to a grave mistake and an attack on the wrong man.

Careful not to disturb his bedmate, Sherlock quickly sent three messages to Lestrade detailing his deductions. Two more than was strictly necessary but he needed to prevent any follow up questions. For perhaps the first time since he owned a mobile phone he wished it kept silent until morning.

The case was solved and he was ready to sleep. He set the phone carelessly on the mattress behind him. Just then John reached back and, grabbing his wrist, pulled him in tighter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John dragged the palm of his right hand across the base of his skull. Steady breaths. 
> 
> His gun hand. The hand he'd earlier used to... 
> 
> Aware of nothing but this point of touch and his own thundering heartbeat, Sherlock shivered silently.

John was angry.

He had not said anything but was clearly nursing a grievance. Sherlock was at a loss as to what it was, though.

He'd been unusually silent and distant as Sherlock approached the suspect, in a clever disguise, and although he had the man implicate himself in several criminal acts in less than an hour, John had stood apart, jacket on, arms tightly crossed at the chest, an impatient, fixed stare throughout. Had the music at the venue not been so loud, surely he'd have heard the man's teeth grind.

Perhaps it was the patron that had spilled his sugary drink on John's shoes, he did wear the pair he considered his 'date shoes'. John was always so careful with his possessions, hated 'waste'. And he'd blanche at any offer for a replacement pair, although they did solve the case and the client's payment was being transferred in the morning.

He'd also passed the relevant information to Lestrade who was now planning a warehouse search and seizure, had thanked him profusely.

Sherlock shifted once more to attain a more comfortable position where he lay on his back on the sofa. No, the top two buttons of the trousers he wore needed to be undone. It was unlikely his disguise had shrunk since he last used it. Had he not noticed weight gain?

John stepped into the sitting room just then and watching Sherlock's hands made a strange, stuttery sound. Setting two cups of tea on the table with a loud thud he turned on his heels and marched down the hallway.

Definitely angry then.

Managing to wrestle the too tight leather trousers off in the bath, unlikely he'd ever wear the pair again, Sherlock kicked them towards the sink and stepped into the shower.

The man was unpredictable, a constant puzzle.

So much pent up anger hidden behind a kind smile and a too nice cardigan. A crack shot who giggled at kitten videos.

He startled noticing the water was ice cold. That meant he'd lost track of time and had been under the spray, pressure accounted for, for over twelve minutes.

It took another two to deal with the now messy black eyeliner. He carefully passed a cotton pad dipped in makeup remover liquid over it until it was gone. It had been a very successful disguise, the suspect had offered to buy him a drink as soon as he approached the man. After that, it was just a matter of the right voice intonation, a strategically worded phrase, a touch to a tattooed biceps.

Certain John was asleep by now, Sherlock crept into the dark room, pulled the edge of the duvet down slowly, and settled on what had become 'his side' of the mattress.

Perhaps whatever was troubling John would no longer be an issue in the morning. Or they'd have a new case, hopefully one that would give them a chance to run clear across London, those always put him in good spirits.

Sherlock even contemplated an alternative, a tactical move, timing John's return with a takeaway to coincide with a premiere of a new BBC series based on a le Carré novel. He cringed at the thought.

Confident John was in the REM phase of sleep, he settled closer to his side, fingers searching for soft, worn cotton, ready to sink into a strong, warm chest.

Small traces of other people's fragrances from the club, easy to ignore, toothpaste, tea, John's own wonderfully warm and calming scent, skin, scalp, breath, hints of sweat. He burrowed happily under John's arm, rubbing his face into warm cotton and stretching his bare feet. John wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, callused fingers scraping still-damp skin, and snuffled a bit.

And then Sherlock froze.

It was distinct, a scent impossible to ignore, unmistakable.

Faint but there.

Semen.

Sherlock momentarily disconnected from the world around him.

.

.

.

He.

He'd.

When.

John dragged the palm of his right hand across the base of his skull. Steady breaths.

His gun hand. The hand he'd earlier used to...

Aware of nothing but this point of touch and his own thundering heartbeat, Sherlock shivered silently.

He only managed to fall asleep as dawn brightened the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are all inspired by others... Need [a larger dose of Sherlock clad in skin-tight trousers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/635897)? You're welcome!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lifestyle?!" John grimaced strangely. "You now have a lifestyle?" 
> 
> He pushed on, his effort must come to fruit. 
> 
> "I've been thinking of returning to that club, where we interrogated the tax cheating suspect. Seems tattoos are part of the... scene."

He watched carefully, listened. There was nothing off, nothing out of place in John's morning routine. His shower the appropriate amount of minutes, the shirt he favored for Mondays, two slices of toast, tea, and a rush to the surgery. Hurried steps down the stairs, something irrelevant about the recycling bins.

He'd never given it much thought before. And now, it was all he could think about.

John had dated since they shared the flat, but not with any lasting success and not in a while now. Was he discouraged in seeking a partner? He seemed very enthusiastic before, but perhaps he got bored with the insipid teachers, doctors, and wasn't there a librarian, the one with the nose?

Women. All of them.

But the weekend's case had taken them to a club frequented exclusively by men, gay men to be precise, large, tattooed, bearded gay men. Many wore braces.

Had John been... stimulated by the atmosphere there?

It was another puzzle. And with no case, Sherlock could dedicate his full attention to it.

He carefully reread everything John had ever published on his blog. The posts, the edits, the comments and replies. Nothing. He then searched John's room for any clues, and relocated all his books, medical textbooks and journals excluded, to the sitting room sofa. There were no diaries or personal letters.

And he'd become too agitated looking through John's box of military mementos, knowing the man would be furious if he knew Sherlock had even touched it. The photo of the unit, Afghan desert and lack of shirts... Sherlock had carefully placed it all back into the dresser and left John's bedroom, the image imprinted forever in his mind. It was prior to the shot.

That one chapter in the paperback novel had been informative, but John hadn't finished the book. Had picked up a science fiction novel instead, a book - Sherlock had checked - with no erotic scenes at all.

"Is that my laptop?"

Sherlock looked up to see John at the door, looking exhausted, supermarket bags in tow, taking in the room in with a bewildered expression. There was quite a lot of mess - books, papers, charts he'd drawn... all information coded, of course.

"I... I was doing a bit of research..."

A sigh, and rustle of plastic biscuit packaging and water being poured into the kettle.

"Just put it all back the way it was when you're done, please."

Several hours later, a ping of the microwave. Sherlock was not much closer to a satisfactory conclusion.

A case interrupted his query. And John's dinner. He accepted reluctantly, even if it was a smuggling-turned-murder on a boat in the container terminal.

Sherlock had found the Thames and its logistics fascinating since he was a child. He would have taken the case on locale only, but a conundrum was Christmas on top.

Northfleet Hope terminal, Tilbury.

It would take at least an hour, even pressing the taxi driver, to reach it and that gave him some time to, carefully, seemingly casually, pose a question or two.

"I've been thinking of getting a tattoo, a full arm sleeve."

John gave him the most bewildered look. "Tattoo? Is this for a case?"

Well, it was unlikely he'd grow a bushy beard or gain five stone in a fortnight.

"Not a case. No. A... lifestyle decision, John." He shifted in his seat and turned up his collar for good measure.

"Lifestyle?!" John grimaced strangely. "You now have a lifestyle?"

He pushed on, his effort must come to fruit.

"I've been thinking of returning to that club, where we interrogated the tax cheating suspect. Seems tattoos are part of the... scene."

The look John gave him spoke of 'deranged', 'intervention' and 'drugs bust'. He quickly looked out the window. He was aware he sometimes misunderstood social cues. John was much better at this but he really couldn't ask him to explain now.

The location was thrilling. The case a simple matter of two employees cheating the company out of a miserly sum. The murder was a tragic accident. And as a result he watched an Estonian crew member grip the edge of John's sleeve and weep. An accident.

Watching John doze off in the taxi on their return he was acutely aware this, case, for a lack of a better word, was out of the frame of his comprehension. But then, John had always been a challenge.

He nibbled on a biscuit as John took his evening shower and thought about all the evidence once more.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed.

The man was impossible!

The quickest possible shower and he was lifting the edge of John's duvet.

He'd interrogate him tomorrow. A direct approach was his last resort.

"... here." John turned and reached for him.

And after the day's agitation and failure, Lestrade's Thames case notwithstanding, all he could do was settle in that embrace.

A hand slid up his arm, over wrist, elbow, biceps, shoulder. Then back down. The stroke slow, lazy. And he sunk into it eagerly. The repetition of the slide of a callused palm over his arm, shoulder, neck. Down his back. Then up, into his hair. Gentle but steady. And pulling close. To a solid chest, unwavering hold. A scratch. A caress.

"... and no bloody tattoos on your skin." John's whisper was lost in his curls.

They both slept then.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The talk. 
> 
> But not at all how he'd planned it. 
> 
> "Nothing to be embarrassed about, perfectly normal." John was using his 'considerate doctor' voice and Sherlock took another sip of tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notice the rating has gone up... heed the tags!

Unfortunately - since when had the Work not been his priority?! - the interrogation of the morning instead included an anxious alcoholic, a man directly responsible for dozens of young women from Eastern Europe winding up without their passports, addicted to heroin, and confined to the walls of an illegal brothel.

The man had not appreciated Sherlock's offhand comment about his own impossibility to partake in the brothel's offerings and, so, he was now sitting on the edge of their bath as John stuck tiny plasters to close the small cut low on his forehead.

"... won't need stitches this time."

Sure hands and practiced motions. Sherlock, still warm from the shower, closed his eyes and enjoyed the touch of his doctor. It was 'bedtime' soon. A word he'd recently had to redefine. He smiled.

"Stop grinning you idiot. There was no need to provoke him, you already had the evidence." John sighed and brushed a thumb across the opposite cheek. "It will bruise quite badly. No headache?"

He shook his head slowly and looked at John. Worry, exhaustion, but also something else in those eyes. Then John, as was his habit when thinking something over, licked his lips, and Sherlock had to close his eyes again.

He dragged two fingertips over John's bottom lip... touched the tip of his tongue... and again... heat... he pushed the fingers in... feeling wet, skin, teeth... "John?" ... he felt the tip of the tongue slide between the two fingers, lips wrap around the... John sucked with a filthy moan... Oh... So wet... John's pink lips, John's obscene mouth... open... wet... sucking... 

Sherlock woke panting, confused.

His hand was awkwardly jammed under his prostrate body, the front of his pyjama bottoms and the sheet under him cooling wetness.

Oh.

With a touch of panic he scrambled to untangle himself of the sheets.

"Sh'lock?" John grumbled into his pillow and started to turn.

He stood up, and without looking back, walked into the sitting room, grabbed his coat, and left the flat.

After a while he'd felt tired and so he sat on a nearby bench. He was in Regent's Park. It was early, just after dawn. A man walking a dog, several runners, one who looked at him with alarm. He closed his eyes to think in peace. 

He could have lied about it being a case.

He could have...

The dream...

"Sherlock?"

He startled to find John standing in front of him, a tight smile on his face, holding a pair of shoes. His shoes. Oh, he was barefoot.

John sat on the bench next to him and dug into his jacket pocket to take out a pair of socks.

"Why don't you put these on and we'll go back to the flat, put the kettle on?"

The talk.

But not at all how he'd planned it.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about, perfectly normal." John was using his 'considerate doctor' voice and Sherlock took another sip of tea.

"I am not an adolescent, John."

"Oh, nocturnal emissions can happen at any age, it's not just teenage boys. Any time, under the right conditions."

"... conditions." He muttered into the cup.

"Well, yes, I guess it has been an... exciting week?"

The 'considerate doctor' voice was starting to grate on him. "Exciting?"

"The... club. Tattoos and all that?" Was John blushing?! "I imagine it was... stimulating..." He cleared his throat, quite flushed, and... Winked?! "We all have a type."

Was John the least astute man in London? "A type?"

And now he was flushed and squirming in his chair, twisting his cup in his hands.

"Nothing wrong with that. Leather, tattoos, all that."

"John, it was not I who found the club 'stimulating'."

And the man was now clearly dumbfounded.

"Those men were certainly not my 'type'."

"Oh, so you have... a type? Well, preference... or..."

"John. When we met I was clear on the matter. Not my area." Except, it was. No longer quite so monogamously married to the Work, was he?

"Right." And now the 'considerate doctor' was gone and 'resolute soldier' tinted John's voice.

He was going to botch this up.

"What I meant to say was... while I can perfectly understand the appeal of a certain code, in appearance, behavior, perhaps roles in relationship, or... during intercourse, I am not interested in the conventions."

"But, you spoke of getting a tattoo yourself? As part of a lifestyle?"

A deep breath to steady his voice. "I may have wrongly assumed you'd find it... provocative, enticing."

A full minute passed. John's mouth was slightly open and no sounds came out, he had the appearance of a strange fish. A fish reassembling its perspective of reality.

"Oh."

"But since then I realised this was a misunderstanding on my part."

And this voice of John's he'd not heard before. "There is nothing you need to do, nothing, to make yourself more enticing."

John smiled, warmly, expectantly.

And then his phone rang. A murder.

Sherlock spent the following night in his armchair, poking at the fireplace and feeling uneasy. This was unfamiliar terrain. He was a novice.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John... I'd like to apologize... in case it happens again." 
> 
> The hand stilled and he could feel a current of tension in John's body. "If you ever, purposely, put yourself in front of a gun-wielding man..." 
> 
> "No, not the case, the other... thing."

Usually he was able to tune it out, but with the case solved and both Lestrade and John yelling at him at top volume, John dramatically waving about a paper cup of tea that was splashing over the soaked cobblestones of the alley, he found the commotion difficult to ignore.

"... and his military experience! The man had a gun, Sherlock!"

Lestrade was starting to develop that strained, unattractive grimace. He tried not to look too directly at John's incensed expression.

It had been quite the chase.

Well, after the long stakeout behind the dumpsters in the bitter downpour. He'd miscalculated that part. Thinking, undoubtedly due to his inexperience in such matters, that the tension of the stakeout, the hint of danger, the need for low voices and sitting close, would be a good moment... yes, a bit wide of the mark, considering the rain, the cold, the difficult to ignore smell of rotting rubbish.

Of course he was aware of the man's background, he'd become an expert on square-shouldered military bearing and only a blind idiot would have missed the three weapons, a handgun and two knives, the man held in the pockets of his jacket.

A sharp-witted blackmailer and a stolen political document. Exhilarating! He just needed to surprise the man and pose as his covert contact, certain he'd disclose himself. The CCTV would record the relevant information.

Or so he thought until the man, in a moment of understandable paranoia, started waving about the weapon and John moved to tackle him to the ground. The scene far too familiar. But, this time, playing out in a completely different manner. 

Watching John disarm their culprit with three swift, unhesitating, formidable moves had been breathtaking.

John continued to fume in the back of the taxi, and had gone to take a surprisingly long shower leaving the drenched and now very cold Sherlock behind without a word.

So he hung up his coat, took off his wet shoes and socks, rolled up the sleeves of his damp shirt and made a large pot of tea and two sandwiches, cheddar and the spicy pickle that was John's favorite. He was setting some biscuits on another plate when John reappeared, in his warm dressing gown, toweling his hair.

"I would never knowingly risk you getting hurt, John."

John sighed. "But you'd risk your wellbeing, your life, without thought? On a blackmailing case your brother should not have involved you in?" He gave the two sandwiches a sad glance. "This has happened before."

"I've never had to take into consideration..." And that was the truth. He set the box down. There had never been anyone before he'd hurt, his callousness had never been blatant disregard for others. "... no one would have gotten hurt but me... before."

John looked at him and his stance softened. "Thank you for the tea. I know that's as close to an apology as I'll get. Now," he gestured to the door, "I might have used most of the hot water."

In dressing gowns and pyjamas, they ate sitting side by side on the sofa, some insipid television programme playing. But John, relaxed now, clearly enjoyed watching the three men discuss rugby as if it was of great importance. There was a colorful chart of statistics on the screen and much nodding.

He'd spent the previous two nights with his own charts and statistics. The blackmailer had been smart enough to elude his brother, and the rest of the misleadingly-called 'intelligence", so Sherlock took apart his own approach and shifted strategy towards a direct encounter. He'd solved the case. And now he was ready for bedtime.

John had already yawned twice. The sports programme had shifted to a different ball and less mud.

Sherlock's own game plan had been a series of blunders.

He'd given John five minutes to settle in before he followed, in the low light of the street lamps, silent although John was certainly still awake.

Strong arms pulled him in without reserve and, for a moment, he thought of the expertly executed tackle. A familiar hand settled into a pattern of strokes between his shoulder blades as he buried his face into John's shirt.

"John... I'd like to apologize... in case it happens again."

The hand stilled and he could feel a current of tension in John's body. "If you ever, purposely, put yourself in front of a gun-wielding man..."

"No, not the case, the other... thing. The emissions. I can't control it."

John shifted slightly. "Oh, oh never mind that." The warm caress finally returned to its pace. "I suppose we have been busy with cases, more than usual."

"How would that have any effect?"

"Well, hm," John clearing his throat meant many things, "you've been too occupied with work... to, hm, regularly masturbate."

"Regularly masturbate?" He was perhaps attributing his own response to John, but he felt the man's skin warm through his thin shirt.

"Yes. Again, nothing to be embarrassed about, everyone does it."

John was positively scorching and Sherlock kicked a corner of the duvet off.

"And practically everyone is an idiot. There are always exceptions. I don't make a habit of masturbating."

"Right."

"Boring."

"Right."

Sherlock had been wrong on these matters before, and John appeared relaxed, hand reaching onto the back of his neck, a favorite spot. "Perhaps my technique is off..."

"Oh, I'm sure every male figures this out early on. Not everyone has the same... drive, though. Different people, different habits."

Soft scratches. Sherlock relished the repetitive touches.

"What is your technique?"

"That is... intimate."

Sherlock moved the fingers he'd pushed under the edge of John's shirt slightly and whispered. "This is intimate."

And suddenly it felt even more so.

"It is."

"I didn't expect this John."

"Oh, that's two of us."

"Problem?"

John giggled and Sherlock felt the tremors of his strong, compact body.

"I'd very much like to acquaint myself with your technique."

John laughed happily. "An experiment?" Sherlock smiled into his shoulder.

"Of sorts."

"You are quite... extraordinary."

Sherlock looked up to see John's open smile. And kissed him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Touch. 
> 
> Touch was a constant possibility. 
> 
> He'd been reluctant to entertain high expectations. But John Watson was a man who feared nothing.

Sherlock shaved slowly, leisurely, listening to the sounds of the routine - scrape of blade, and again, tap water running in a narrow stream, splash, slow breaths, scrape, and again.

But the sounds coming from the kitchen were far more interesting. John was flipping crêpes, while whistling to the music on the radio. There was an unsuccessful flip occasionally, every 4th crêpe on average, followed by a flippant, mild-tempered curse or even a giggle.

He dried his skin with a soft towel and applied his preferred moisturizer. Then checked his hair once more.

A regular regime of orgasms transformed John Watson, the tight-lipped, arms-crossed, vein-throbbing, gun-wielding, door-slamming John, into a crêpe-flipping, radio-whistling, spatula-waving, hip-wiggling John. And what a sight it was to observe, the wiggling in particular.

Sherlock himself had become a devotee of John's orgasms.

The slow build from initial shivers, eyes closed, hands reluctant to reach, trembling thighs, tight grunts, as Sherlock unhurriedly licked and tasted, observed and learned. 

And the abandon that followed. The loud moans. The fists tight in his curls. The thrusts. As he sucked. Savored. Swallowed. Lost himself in John's skin, sweat, semen.

And the aftermath.

John. Pointing his spatula at the high stack in the middle of the table, a wide, warm grin, "Strawberries and cream?"

Standing at the crime scene, careful not to step into the surprisingly oblong blood puddle, Sherlock surmised John's zeal for orgasms rivaled his own for serial killers. And now both of them were having a very good day.

"Well, someone's doing alright for himself." Lestrade approached him.

"He's dead. And his kidneys have been cut out with surprising precision, post-mortem."

"Not the victim, Sherlock, even I can tell the man's dead. This is why we're here instead of enjoying the match like the rest of the country." He nodded towards the back of the room. "I mean John."

Sherlock glanced back at John quickly.

The man was smiling, hands in pockets, chest out, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"At least one of us is getting a leg over." Lestrade shrugged.

And then, his eyes meeting Sherlock's for a moment, John smiled wider. And Lestrade, in a surprising moment of instant clarity, understood. And Sherlock blushed a red brighter than the blood-stained floor.

No point in further delaying confirmation. "Two of us. John is adamant about reciprocating." And immediately he realized so was their killer. "Oh, yes, of course! The cleaner who called it in!"

He quickly relayed the line of deductions to Lestrade, who was still glancing at John with a startled expression.

Things did change. But not in the way he had feared.

Cases were priority. Arguments were no more or less frequent. Pathogen samples still had to be labeled and stored away from the edibles.

Now John held his hand during taxi rides. Casually when he was busy with a case, and teasingly, all calloused fingertips circling around joints in what Sherlock was sure was blatant innuendo, after their successes.

Touch.

Touch was a constant possibility.

He'd been reluctant to entertain high expectations. But John Watson was a man who feared nothing.

Sherlock had been kissed on the staircase, his back pressed hard to the wall. Pushed towards the bedroom. Undressed, hurriedly, without finesse. Tackled onto the mattress, all muscle and want. He'd been woken with the softest brush of lips, lathered with tauntingly slow caress under the shower, held warmly as his breaths calmed after an orgasm. He'd had his bum pinched. Well, that led to sweeping up of some broken glassware and a chemical stain on the linoleum floor in the kitchen, so perhaps it was off the menu.

As was groping at crime scenes - there'd been a stern lecture by Lestrade on propriety and respecting the victims of crime. It had only been a case of securities fraud, no decomposing body in sight, but John had been pretty miffed getting caught with Sherlock's hand down the front of his jeans.

Kissing. The spectrum of possibilities kissing presented astounded him.

Quick pecks on the cheek as he read his email and John rushed off to work in the morning. Lingering kisses that spoke of want as other matters kept them occupied. Unhurried kisses that moved down his jawline, neck, chest, lower. Rough bites. Sucking. Kisses broken by moans and John's raspy "oh, fuck..."

And here we come to the crux of the matter. Sherlock was determined to redefine that word, too.

"... should not be an issue with adequate lubrication." He looked around the dark room. "John?" He checked the clock, 03:16. He'd taken too long to prepare his argument and had executed his scripted speech long after John had retired to the bedroom. He did have a tendency to speak to the man even when he was absent. Sherlock sighed, set down the violin bow and climbed the stairs towards the low sounds of snores. It was bedtime.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An accident. An inexperienced delivery driver. 
> 
> A 'mild traumatic brain injury'. As if the word 'mild' could be used in the same sentence with the rest of that diagnosis?! Sherlock inhaled a shaky breath and opened his eyes.

Eyes closed, he focused his attention on the steady, repetitive sound of the heart monitor. It matched the slow pulse under his trembling fingertips. The rest of the world fell far into the background.

An Albanian hitman. A corrupt politician not worth their time. A chase. And a car crash.

John.

An accident. An inexperienced delivery driver. 

A 'mild traumatic brain injury'. As if the word 'mild' could be used in the same sentence with the rest of that diagnosis?! Sherlock inhaled a shaky breath and opened his eyes.

There was a small bandage across John's left cheek and a more serious immobilizing dressing around his left wrist, its ligaments badly pulled but luckily not torn. He looked tired and small as he slept in the high hospital bed, blanket pulled high over his chest. Sherlock sighed and refocused on the steady heartbeat.

"I have already told you I am not leaving." Sherlock tried to keep his voice low but the situation was clearly escalating.

"Sir, visiting hours are over soon, I must ask you to..."

He was about to verbally tear the nurse apart, his gambling debts and wife's infidelity obvious, when a croak of a cough brought him to a standstill. "... enough already."

"John!"

Unsure what to do, his hands fluttered around John's cough-shaken body.

The nurse addressed John. "I am sorry, but we only allow family members..."

John's voice was tight. "He's my friend..."

"As I've said, work colleagues are welcome during..."

John bristled. His voice was taking on that stark quality that alarmed Sherlock on the rare occasions John felt the need to use it. "My partner is my family. He is not leaving. Get the doctor. Now."

Sherlock, impossibly, felt the floor sway under his feet.

The nurse opened his mouth again, then took in Sherlock's hands wrapped around John's uninjured one. "Oh, right. Of course. Apologies."

An overweight and overly jolly physician soon entered the room clicking a pen. "Ah, Dr. Watson! Awake and causing a stir with your husband already, sending my toughest nurse running down the corridor!"

And the room tilted. Sherlock now held John's hand to steady himself. Surely, he'd correct the doctor...

As if unaware of the bold pronouncement, John was attempting to sit up against the pillows, with some difficulty, leaning against Sherlock's arms for support. Helping with pillows allowed him to touch more of John's body, assure himself once more that his ribcage and all it held were uninjured.

"How's my concussion?" John observed his wrapped hand, closing and opening the fingers as he spoke. "I assume we're looking at a night's stay for observation?"

"Just until the morning. To be on the safe side, although everything's looking well so far. You'll tell the staff if the wrist bothers you too much. Well," he pointed the pen at Sherlock, "I'll warn the night shift you'll be staying, but best let him rest. My Mindy also refused to leave when I fell on the ice three winters ago. Kept me awake with her fussing. So none of that or it'll be two nights and I'm sure you want him home sooner than later!"

Sherlock nodded, at a loss for words.

John was making a pained face as he sunk back down into the pillows. "Well, this one didn't go according to plan."

"The driver of the car that hit us has been detained."

"I heard you on the phone. Your brother?"

"Hm."

"A phone call when a text would suffice?"

"Hm."

John smirked. "So, the MI6 now arrests doughnut delivery men in central London?"

"It was his case that led to the car chase..."

"I'm fine." John squeezed his hand.

Sherlock attempted to speak in a calm and collected manner but somehow it came out as wheezy sputtering. "Fine?! You... you... it could have..."

John pulled him closer. "Come here." And with his face buried against John's neck, hands gingerly wrapped around his shoulders, Sherlock finally felt some of the anxiety seep away. John shifted a bit to the side and whispered. "Get in here." 

And he did, shoes kicked off, careful not to shake the bed too much, pressing himself to John's side. John smelled of hospital, of strong disinfectant, of dirt and motor oil, of blood. Sherlock twitched.

"I'm fine. We're both fine. It was an accident. A small one. Not even stitches."

"Not according to plan, no." He mumbled into John's skin.

"And I assume the day's 'plan' had something to do with the, frankly astonishing, selection of condoms you left displayed in the bath this morning?"

Thankfully the lights in the room were very low. "Hm."

"Twelve kinds?" There was humour in John's voice, the best kind, warm and eager.

"Not informed of your preference."

"And we need condoms for...?"

"Again, not certain of your... preference."

"Aha." John held him tighter. "And your preference?"

"Yet to be extrapolated."

John giggled.

"An experiment, then?"

"Hm." He didn't mind the anomalous scents, because underneath it was John, all sweat, musk, warmth, heartbeat and temper, John Watson.

"Looking forward to it."

The aftermath of an adrenaline surge and John's familiar warm embrace, Sherlock was surely and fast approaching sleep. "I'll wake you in two hours. I've set my watch."

"I know you will, love."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is it…” Sherlock felt a choking deep in his throat, he barely managed one wheezy word, “… enough?” 
> 
> John stared for a few devastating seconds, then, an exasperated exhale, took three steps around the kitchen table and brought Sherlock’s face to his shoulder in an enveloping, tight embrace. 
> 
> “Idiot.” He huffed.

He ignored the dust, ignored Lestrade’s and John’s dry coughs, ignored the ticking clock.

They had several hundred books to get through before the morning. Or there’d be another dead body in the morgue. He’d been unable to pinpoint the single book that would hold the single sheet of paper beyond locating it in the very tall and very full stack in the library - the handwritten formula of the bespoke toxin had accidentally been used as a bookmark by the suspect’s sister.

He ignored the inane cover illustrations, all muscled chests and windblown hair, lettering in gold and lilac. And the titles… Words like ‘tender’, ‘savage’, ‘rogue’, ‘seduced’. He ignored how, improbable as it was, the vapid vocabulary made him blush.

And now, mid-morning, instead of taking a taxi home to wash off the dust, preferably during a shared hot shower, the two of them were sitting in a pub with Lestrade, the head librarian and five other people, including Sally Donovan. In a pub. A pub that had no problem serving alcohol at this hour.

“… and you do know your way around RDA, Sherlock Holmes!” Three librarians laughed as the head of IT for the library, a woman that had been remarkably informed and reasonable, but was now swaying after two thirds of her pint of ale, called for another toast to ‘Sherlock Holmes, the champion of crime and bodice rippers’.

John, on his second round of ‘this calls for shots’ with Lestrade and Donovan, cheered the loudest. Sherlock appreciated his pink cheeks, and the fact he’d taken off his thick wool jumper, a move that asymmetrically unsettled his hair - at the moment just a bit too long for John’s liking; just perfect, Sherlock thought.

At least the perpetrator, a dreadfully boring and predictable pharmacist with a mediocre idea of ensuring more than one inheritance, had been arrested. So there was something to celebrate. Well, perhaps not for the families of the initial four victims.

A serial killer.

But Sherlock had more pressing issues to deal with.

“But…”

“But?” John, refreshed after a boozy midday kip and shower, poured hot water from the kettle into two cups.

“Is it…” Sherlock felt a choking deep in his throat, he barely managed one wheezy word, “… enough?”

John stared for a few devastating seconds, then, an exasperated exhale, took three steps around the kitchen table and brought Sherlock’s face to his shoulder in an enveloping, tight embrace.

“Idiot.” He huffed.

“I am, when this… these things are concerned, John. You dated women previously, only women…”

Hands ran up and down his back, John’s voice was low and soft. “No, I was thinking of myself. I’m the idiot here.” He sighed but his hands continued the repetitive pattern, climbing up Sherlock’s spine towards his shoulders. “You usually see everything. So I’m thinking… I’m thinking it is bloody obvious how… smitten I am, Sherlock.”

“Smitten?” Sherlock felt lightheaded, he couldn’t help smiling against the warm skin of John’s cheek.

“Shut up.” John was smiling, too, he didn’t need to see to know.

They spent the afternoon and evening answering emails as the radio played low in the background and Sherlock was not too optimistic about his case progressing. Until he had to look around the flat for his laptop charger, finally finding it on the floor in John’s bedroom.

A colourful box with the words ’Pleasure Me’ printed on it stood in the middle of the bed, sheets and duvet tightly squared away, the way John always kept it. Sherlock dropped the charger.

They didn’t get to open the box of condoms that evening. Not with John coming up to investigate the noise, finding Sherlock with his back to the wall and an impressive erection.

John had smiled, knelt down, pulled his pyjama bottoms down and off. Licked his lips, grinning. It was all over in under a minute.

Gasping loudly as he tried to regain some composure, he looked down at John’s red, sticky lips. At John’s fist, right hand moving slowly over the length of his beautiful, thick cock as he ejeculated. At the thick strands of semen on his feet and the bedroom floor.

They cleaned up with a discarded vest and John pulled him onto the bed. Strong arms and, finally, finally, a distinct lack of clothes. Sherlock didn’t think he’d be able to sleep just yet but John stretched his limbs and groaned with clear satisfaction.

“… no, there will never be enough, of you. Come here.”

As tender, rouge, seducing hands slid down his sides and up his back and neck in repetitive motions, sleep finally pulled at his consciousness. Sherlock pressed his chest and face to warm, naked skin.

Smitten, indeed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models. And yet, Sherlock was quite sure of the fact that John Watson was the most beautiful human being alive. And the low, husky snore had a certain auditory appeal.

Lazy. Hardly a word he’d use to describe himself.

“Well, I do prefer you all warm-and-lazy to twitchy-and-morose on the no-case days. Easier on the wall, too.”

John had used the word yesterday afternoon as they lay on the sofa and watched the ridiculous spy film; he’d stopped pointing out its plot inconsistencies, as well as some concerning misunderstandings about basic physics, four films ago. Although he did enjoy referencing one or two key characters when dealing with Mycroft, with predictable response.

Well, John had watched the film while Sherlock… napped. As John held him, small and incredibly soothing scratches over his stomach, one leg carelessly thrown over his own under the blanket.

Was he becoming lazy? He did sleep much more - more often and more hours in total. And was currently laying very still in bed at nine o’clock when for the majority of his life waking up meant jumping to action, not lingering and observing John’s laryngeal prominence in the rare morning sun, the stubbly skin, each hair a different shade ranging from platinum and steel-gray to blond and, surprisingly, auburn, the beat of his jugular vein, the beautiful violet bruising Sherlock was responsible for and John had not yet discovered, he could just match his lower incisors to one side of the outline…

No, not lazy at all. Just… involved in prolonged periods of important data collection and analysis. If anything he had become hypervigilant in his study of John Watson. After all, it only makes sense to keep things that were useful, information that mattered. And since their first meeting the man intrigued him. Afghanistan. A psychosomatic limp. The unique appeal was instant, strong. He’d winked when introducing himself. Winked?!

And yet it took him all this time to interpret the attraction for what it was.

Or did his feelings develop over time? The man constantly surprised him, challenged him. A collection of contradictions, a doctor who had killed. Well, on the ‘bad days’.

John stirred and sighed, but resettled back comfortably into his pillow. Which was good, because Sherlock now had a better view of his slightly open lips.

Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models. And yet, Sherlock was quite sure of the fact that John Watson was the most beautiful human being alive. And the low, husky snore had a certain auditory appeal.

He’d always enjoyed a degree of recognition for his deductions, but until John no one had looked at him and pronounced him remarkable or amazing out loud, publicly, without restraint. John's expressed that thought in every possible variant available to the English language. And since that first cab ride together Sherlock had reveled in it. ‘Amazing.’ 

And had often blushed.

It had been obvious. 

He was obvious.

“But it was obvious!”

“No, no, you bloody drama queen, it was not!” John was pulling him, with excess force, up the stairs and into the flat.

“John, the two women were just hired decoys, actresses that had no knowledge their employers were in fact running a sting at the party…”

“You started taking your clothes off, slurring. I thought you were drugged!”

“I pretended I was intoxicated. It wasn’t real. It was for the case…” Sherlock touched his hair, it would take more than one shampooing to get all the glitter out.

John, jacket and shoes already off, crossed his arms. Sherlock braced himself for the inevitable stern voice and details of the apparent transgression. But John just let out a small huff and marched off towards the bath.

“John?!”

The shower switched on.

He looked down at his shimmering hands. The suit jacket, no, actually everything he wore would need to be taken to the specialist dry cleaners. He looked for a bin bag under the sink.

The glitter took four subsequent shampooings, plus he took the time to rinse the bath. No need to get John even more riled up.

A bit sheepish, wrapped in his dressing gown, Sherlock found John sitting in the kitchen with two cups of tea. He stood next to the table and took one for himself.

“I’m sorry. I overreacted.”

“No, I should have given you a warning. My… history…”

John kept spinning the teacup in his hands. “No, it wasn’t… I didn’t think you’d taken anything, well, not of your own free will, that is.” John rubbed at his brow. He was embarrassed, but why?! “I admit I should have been more worried about the drugs, in fact. So, sorry about that, all that, and things I said in the taxi and just now.”

The tea was the perfect ratio of assam, water, milk and sugar. So, John wasn’t mad at him. He always put a bit less sugar when he was. And there was the one occasion with no sugar at all, Sherlock cringed at the memory.

“Were you embarrassed about my behaviour, my appearance?” He ran a hand through his still damp hair. “It was an act, for the case, the Brazilian cultural attaché will appreciate us uncovering the truth beyond the deception. The statues will return to their rightful place in the museum.” He attempted a joke, and a smile. “I am fairly certain there is a bottle of cachaça with our names on it.”

“No, not embarrassed. You were brilliant, as always. It was a fairly complex operation and you dismantled it while dancing to funky music with four different people.”

“I enjoy the cannibalizing motifs of tropicália music. And only three of the four had relevant data, that fourth woman approached me, had to shake her off.”

John smirked, and finally looked up at him. “Only you can find dance music with elements of cannibalism. And only you have to shake off a famous lingerie model.”

“You’re no longer upset.” It wasn’t a question.

“Again, I apologise. I don’t know what got into me…” John drank the rest of his tea and cleared his throat.

Sherlock set down his own cup and took John’s hand.

“I know it was for a case… I can’t help… It looked unerringly real.” John’s eyes momentarily flicked towards Sherlock’s neck, the exact spot one of his dancing companions - whose fame was irrelevant, who had no information pertaining to the case - had brushed her lips against leaving a pink smudge Sherlock was sure he’d cleaned off in the shower.

He pulled John up, off the chair and up the stairs. The man could be as observant as a rusty marrow scoop!

“You were the envy of the whole ballroom.” John mumbled as he relaxed into the pillows, exhausted from the day’s running about.

“Of course I was. They all watched you manhandle me out the door and, as they accurately assumed, straight to your bed.”

John was settling in for the night, pulling him in tighter and drawing up the duvet. “Our bed.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visualised his slow breaths wrapping around the familiar cabled pattern of the incredibly homely jumper that he had, incredibly, grown to like

“Bored.” Sherlock mumbled into the soft wool of the jumper.

“Hm.” John hummed and pulled him closer.

He could hear the man slurp his fourth cup of tea for the day. Certainly not the last. Unhurriedly. Lazily. Blowing at the steam between sips. As if toasting a day of no cases, no calls, no, well, no relevant emails.

He should have been crawling out of his skin with boredom. Instead, he was aware his body was pliant, face sunk into a warm lap, legs weighed by a worn blanket, one finger slowly tracing the golden skin just under that wool.

He visualised his slow breaths wrapping around the familiar cabled pattern of the incredibly homely jumper that he had, incredibly, grown to like. Repetition. Sherlock huffed into the wool. It must be the fullness of his stomach. The pleasant exhaustion of his thighs. After his typical post-case crash of twelve hours of sleep and ‘you’re having a proper fry up, no arguments’, he was sated. Then there had been another kind of sating. John had been exceedingly thorough in reminding Sherlock it had been a four day case and both were ravenous for more than a hot sit-down meal.

Warm calloused fingertips dragged against the back of his neck and the last trace of tension left his body.

It had been a rather fun case. Started off as a tedious murder between sisters. Became interesting when the man he suspected as their spurned lover turned out to be a tragically bullied third sibling.

“No, no, not going there, no thank you.”

“But, John…”

“Not a fan of the London sewerage system, no.”

“But, the case…”

“Not crawling in sewerage, again, no. Not buying a new jacket when even the specialist dry cleaners can’t get rid of the diseased smell, not again!”

“Surely as a medical professional you’re aware the miasmatic theory has no merit…” Sherlock was now widely gesticulating in the general direction of the murder weapon. Well, the hypothesised general direction of the murder weapon, there was a 76% chance.

“Nope.”

John was lowering his voice and had adopted his wide, Captain John Watson, stance. For just a moment Sherlock was distracted. He then grinned like a lunatic and ran head first into the flow of sewage ignoring a quite spectacular assortment of obscenities that almost drowned out the splash of brogue boots that followed.

Fascinated by the design of the culvert through which one of London’s subterranean rivers ran its course, Sherlock ran a finger over overlaid sketches and maps spread out over the floor of the small room the Met was letting him use.

They’d made him take his shoes off before entering the building. Irrelevant.

One key piece of evidence recovered, a bloodied knife, but the Effra had taken the suspect’s blood-stained clothes downstream towards the Thames and that was perhaps a loss.

John had come back slightly less angry and wearing fresh clothes, including a different jacket and shoes. Sherlock had already thought of a more than decent replacement for the brogues, one of the pair now lost to, fittingly, one of the lost rivers of London.

He stared at the tip of one well-worn shoe, just off the intersection of two charts. It started to tap.

“Of course! The 2007 flooding! The additional construction work and the grate!”

The younger sister’s trench coat was recovered, the blood matched, arrests made.

And he now had a perfect excuse to buy that fitted Barbour jacket. And finally put that bespoke last to use, he’d had the leather picked out months ago. Now, cashmere was acceptable…

“Care for a bit of telly, or should we just return to bed, hm?”

“Hmpf.” Inhaling all that wool had made him drowsy.

“Agreed, bed.” John chuckled.

After a slight disagreement over overzealous teeth hygiene, finally wrapped in John’s duvet, wrapped in John's arms. The compact body slotted perfectly against his. Skin against skin, pyjamas having not made a reappearance since they first hit the bedroom floor. As always, Sherlock took a moment to smell, taste, collect the evening’s batch of data.

“You didn’t have to follow.”

John’s palm slowly slid up his spine to settle in small circular rubs over his cervical vertebrae. Sherlock shivered and rubbed his face against the stubble of John’s jaw. The repetitive swirls were simultaneously calming and arousing.

“I’ll always follow, love.”

“John…” He nuzzled against the hairs, at a loss for words.

“It’s fine. We’re fine.”

With just a small nudge of his hand, John angled him for an unhurried kiss.

This time Sherlock was the one who followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An underdeveloped chapter that waited too long for a break in my schedule. And I so missed being away from these two. So I'm posting it as is.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It should have hurt much much more. But John took care. His fingertips barely skimmed the surface of the skin in soft curved motion. 
> 
> “Thank you, John.”

The sitting room floor under his bare back was bitterly cold, that lovely patch of hard wood between the two carpets. And the wind streaming in from the open window nearby was freezing. He felt snowflakes drifting down onto the skin of his face and chest. As he listened, eyes closed, to the exquisite and very appropriately titled composition by Anders Hillborg.

It was fantastic.

Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, he did still feel quite ill, his skin still pulled and burned, but it was…

“What in the bloody hell…?!”

John.

“Hm, quick from the surgery. Isn’t the snow interfering with the traffic?” Keep the tone casual. John was not too observant, perhaps if he mentioned tea… Although, now that he was kneeling next to Sherlock’s supine and partially nude body, fingers on his pulse, perhaps he’d notice something was off…

“What did you do you, you… you idiot?! How? In January, during the Arctic blast?! A bloody sunburn?!”

He cleared his throat but at the last second decided not to speak.

“Is this why it’s currently snowing in our sitting room?!” And with less yelling and more concern. “Do you have heat stroke as well?”

John was already up to close the window, muttering something decidedly unsavoury under his breath, then, predictably, to the thermostat and then the first aid kit. So, now he’ll also find out about the…

“And where are all my gloves, just got a fresh box?!”

Stomping back.

“John, it's an exp…”

A thermometer shoved mid-word into his mouth, not too gently, and he finally opened his eyes and looked at John’s worried expression.

“Now, I’m taking your temperature and then you’re having a long drink of water and some ibuprofen.” He sighed. “The snow under the window was actually a good idea to cool down the burnt skin. Still, I’ll look into the bath for an ointment. Any dizziness?”

Sherlock shook his head just as the thermometer beeped.

“Good, no fever.” John stood and offered him a hand, so he got up as quickly as he could and followed to the kitchen.

It had taken just two minutes too long under the lamps to overhear the suspect threaten someone over the phone, her choice of words confirming the source of the counterfeit dietary supplements with dangerous levels of mercury and cyanide.

Two people were dead in London. And three more were in hospital. And he still had missed one more bit of information.

“You’d think people would shy away from a product called ‘Decay’, wouldn’t you, hm.” John was slowly applying a creme to his tender skin as Sherlock finished explaining the case sipping lukewarm tea at the kitchen table. It should have hurt much much more. But John took care. His fingertips barely skimmed the surface of the skin in soft curved motion.

“Thank you, John.”

With a final pass of creme over his chin John sighed in sympathy.

Tea at a proper temperature irritated. Spicy food was off the menu for the night. He’d never get his hair how it should be under a cold shower, the coconut oil in his solid conditioner worked well at a higher temperature. And he was afraid to check his reflection in the mirror.

And in two days he’d start peeling…

Soon they settled on the sofa for the evening, Sherlock on his back, the only comfortable position, with an untied a dressing gown and chest slathered in cream. It smelled medicinal, reminded him of John, and he found that soothing in more than one way.

John sat at his feet, held his hand and stroked his thumb over his crossed ankles. He’d muted the television and gazed towards the windows. “Snow. Incredible how it not only temporarily erases the grit of the city, but also how all the noise dies down. As if the whole city becomes still…”

Noise… noise!

“John…! Of course, the noise!” 

John stared with that wonderful expectant and open smile.

“She was the only other person who had access! She chose the dreadful noise… music in the salon! It was the owner’s mother!”

He grabbed his phone from the dressing gown pocket, wincing at the sudden movement, and sent a quick text to Lestrade.

“Now, my foolish but brilliant boy, I think there was enough excitement for the day. Perhaps some light reading in bed?”

“I still have to type up the jellyfish experiment from my notes. Tomorrow is the next phase, the luminescence will…”

“Well, you’ll have to do it laying flat on your back tonight. Perhaps I can take dictation?”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at the right moment. And - aha!

John had not managed to control his reaction. If anything, averting his eyes so quickly gave him away. And his blush further revealed he knew he was caught.

“I don’t mind?” Oh, John, I really, really don’t mind. He sat up with some discomfort.

A small gentle kiss on his creme-moistened lips. A hand stroking up his back and to the back of his neck, the softest caring press of John’s palm. “Let’s get you comfortable, love. And next time, I’ll take the tanning booth, alright?”

He could see it, a tan well above the wrists. “Oh, John, yes, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wondering about the Anders Hillborg composition? It's titled "Cold Heat", [here you go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=21nsQCasIoE). 
> 
> So, some seven months ago I had this image of the hand at the back of the neck as a soothing, intimate, loving gesture... to quote Oscar Wilde's essay [The Decay of Lying](http://www.victorianweb.org/victorian/authors/wilde/decay.html): "Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life"... or something like that.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was his John unhappy? Did he feel resentful, uncherished? Did he feel bored with it all? The surgery, the shopping, the bills and taxes and recycling of paper and chemical stains on the kitchen table and… and… Would he just leave one day?

Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. And absolutely, positively, utterly hateful.

John was away. Sister, family, something or other, irrelevant. Three and a half days already and now another postponement of his return. As if rehab was more than a small nuisance, well, a smallish hell… but Harry was a strong woman. Unlikely John was needed there. Certainly he was needed here, at Baker Street. In the cold, dark, pitiful bedroom that smelled wrong.

So, told to be patient, twice, Sherlock sent text after text after text until Lestrade relented and sent him an address. And several choice profanities. He threw off his dressing gown and paused mid-stride. He hadn’t showered since John left. Tips of fingers to his greasy matted hair. The hat, they all loved the damn hat, it’ll do.

He couldn’t keep his twitching legs still in the cab. And the drive was taking at least 27% longer than typical for the route, a horrid ice rain and some or other popular event affecting the traffic in the area. Was it a bank holiday? The cabbie was clearly a fan whose gaze kept jumping to the rearview mirror. The man grinned like an idiot. It was the damn hat. He looked down at his phone but there were no updates from John. He really hoped there was at least a dead body at the end of the tedious ride, dreadful day, hateful week.

No dead body.

In fact, neither a living one. The man was missing.

At least the husband was slightly entertaining. An actor, apparently of some renown. And not just reality television. There were various polished statues lined up on a mantle, plus a prominently displayed ribbon of one or other of the chivalric orders. The irritating young constables, of both sexes, kept ‘being helpful’, but even Lestrade had straightened his overcoat collar three times and stood just a step too far from the man as he pointed out details, nodding seriously.

“He’s never late, never. I was to come home after ten, after I’ve finished recording Telemachus for BBC4, a gruelling day, but wonderful director. And he typically has dinner ready. I believe it was to be Moroccan tonight. He texted me earlier to ask about my preference for wine.” The actor gave a dazzling smile. “Roussanne, of course.” 

As they walked the large and immaculately kept property there were several anecdotes from film shoots on horseback in mud, embarrassing American accents, early career social stumblings. All told with humour and wit. Lestrade laughed on two occasions. It was getting tedious by the minute.

“So, all his things are here, look.” And they were, wallet, keys and phone, lined up on a dustless desk.

“How often does the cleaning service come?”

“Oh, no, no staff, John likes to take care of that.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder down the carpeted sitting room, pale grey wool all the way to a polished fireplace grate. “Your husband does all the cleaning?”

“Houseproud, John is, likes to dot the i's and cross the t’s.” A grin of unnaturally perfect teeth.

Sherlock felt a small unease when the name was spoken but shook it away. “So, not employed? Outside your home?”

“Oh, no, no, he has his little library job. Three mornings a week.” He sighed theatrically. “I complain and complain about the alarm but he won’t be swayed to give it up.”

He left the now much less interesting actor with a fawning Lestrade and walked the whole house alone picking up small details as he went.

A part time position. Why not a full time one? Well, if he spent most of his time polishing mantels and pairing wine to homecooked dinners, no wonder. And a job in service of the community. Library. But almost no books to be found in the pristine house. Leather-bound screenplays, one or two bookcases of classics and more contemporary hardbacks, but no read books, and no used notebooks or papers of any kind. Several framed photographs of the actor, presumably in some of his more prominent roles and public appearances but only two smaller photos of the two of them together, both formal wedding photographs. And besides a modest and quite conservative wardrobe not much else that spoke of the quiet, ‘houseproud’, and clearly loyal man.

Sherlock picked up one photo of the pair, smiling for the camera. Yes, loyal. And very much in love.

No sign of struggle. Nothing missing. Except the man himself.

He found the wedding ring on the kitchen counter. It had been regularly cleaned. The actor had not even noticed it yet.

Back at Baker Street he sat in his armchair stunned. The universe is rarely so lazy.

Was his John unhappy? Did he feel resentful, uncherished? Did he feel bored with it all? The surgery, the shopping, the bills and taxes and recycling of paper and chemical stains on the kitchen table and… and… Would he just leave one day?

Feeling a wave of pure panic wash over him, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his knees, closed his eyes and retreated to his mind palace.

“… and here we go.”

Sherlock opened his eyes to John kneeling in front of him, one hand on his wrist, taking his pulse, the other just having smacked him lightly on the right cheek. He hadn’t really felt it but sensed the residua of the impact.

“Have you’ve not even moved since I left?” John appeared worried. Or was he angry?

Sherlock tried to answer but only succeeded in making a few panicked squeaks. His whole body was stiff.

“Oh, my love…” John wrapped his warm arms around him, kissing into his atrociously unkempt hair. And Sherlock started to shake.

“I’m so sorry… so sorry… please…”

John only held him tighter. “Don’t care, don’t care whatever it is, burnt bed, spleen dripping into the butter dish, don’t fucking care.” He practically climbed on top of Sherlock never loosening the arms that held him. “I’ve been away five days dealing with the most irritating and stubborn sister a man could have and you’ve been waiting and I didn’t even phone this morning but I was rushing to catch the train, the direct…”

John smelled incredible. Cheap hotel shower gel, a train station bacon butty, frost and… and John. The stiffness decreased to a point and he pushed his hands into John’s damp jumper.

“Don’t leave.” And he was sobbing. Pathetic. Loud.

“Sherlock, oh for fuck's sake… Look at me.”

Sherlock blinked through the tears.

“What is this about? Really. Because it does not look like we’re dealing with a rancid spleen.”

“I take you for granted. It was brought to my attention. And I’m sorry.”

John’s forehead added vertical to the already present horizontal creases. He did not understand, yet.

“John… I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive, unaware, un… un… uncomprehending…” He started swallowing the syllables.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re quite impossible. I still love you though, you know that, right? Hm?”

And John kissed his lips, thoroughly, passionately, as if smeared nasal mucus did not offend him in the slightest. His strong arms pulling Sherlock closer. His teeth nipping at lips. Fingers gripping the back of neck with a bit too much pressure, which was perfect. All of it was perfect. He did not deserve it. And still, it was offered without reserve.

And John smiled, beautifully, warmly, even though Sherlock could now tell he was exhausted from the trouble with Harry, from the long train ride, from the cold bothering his shoulder, the inferior tea at the rehab centre. “I have no idea what brought this on but if you’ve been sulking here for days, and you do smell as if you have, I say we’re both due a bath and some very unhealthy takeaway and some beer.”

He sniffled, with some embarrassment. “I could… try… beer.”

Standing up and pulling him by both hands John laughed. “Yeah, as much as a video of that would have the Met in my pocket, you’re having wine instead, I think.”

Sherlock panicked, his voice two octaves higher. “Not a Roussanne?!”

John started on his shirt buttons, his hands sure and warm, then his cuffs. He snickered. “I have no idea what that is but you can tell me all about it in the bath. It’ll take a while to shampoo that rat’s nest back into my soft curls, won’t it?”

He lowered his head to nuzzle a bit. “John, you are perfect.”

The doctor shook his head and giggled. “And so are you. Because you're an idiot. My idiot.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was strikingly similar to his childhood memory of the varicella rash. A persistent itch that traveled over his skin never settling in one place, never to be scratched to his content. 
> 
> Sherlock curled into himself more tightly on the sofa, his back onto the room, pointedly ignoring how empty it was.

It was strikingly similar to his childhood memory of the varicella rash. A persistent itch that traveled over his skin never settling in one place, never to be scratched to his content.

Sherlock curled into himself more tightly on the sofa, his back onto the room, pointedly ignoring how empty it was.

John had taken more hours at the surgery that month citing a need to ‘bump up his ISA’. His reading materials had recently shifted away from paperback novels with lurid titles towards equally melodramatic pronouncements of ’12% earnings’ and ‘pauper vs. lottery winner - it’s your choice’.

Sherlock kept shifting on the sofa, involuntarily scratching at his elbows and back of thighs.

John was making plans. Financial plans. Retirement plans. Life plans. Longterm. Plans.

And, inexplicably, that terrified him.

He kept scratching the silky fabric of his favourite dressing gown, eyes closed. Not thinking. Pretending to not think.

“… if we cut back on the takeaways a bit… I could cook more often… healthier, too… more fruit and veg… five a day…”

Water boiling and the kettle switching off. Familiar bare feet on linoleum. Cupboards opening and closing. John’s voice. The scent of tomatoes and garlic. It was fine, it was all fine.

Fascinated, Sherlock stood in front of a wall-mounted memorial fountain, luckily for the investigation, a dried up and unkempt one. The blood drops sticky in texture against the equally dark ledge, consistent with what he expected, just a confirmation they were closer to the end of this empty chase. It was the kinetic sculpture that made up the fountain that had his attention. He had deduced the workings of its mechanism, offset bearings causing the lighter disc to disappear and reappear behind the darker one, and was about to suggest to John they return in the spring to see it as it rocked under the weight of the water.

Spring was still some weeks away.

And he wasn’t accustomed to making plans of such a frivolous nature so far in advance.

Just as he was about to sink into a foul mood Anderson misstepped and just barely grazed one of the smaller outlying droplets with the edge of his boot. Sherlock grinned and inhaled.

“You do understand Lestrade can not tolerate that kind of language in front of his team.”

Sherlock fidgeted in the back of the taxi, John’s arms were crossed and hands unavailable. He tapped one finger on his bottom lip pretending to think about the case.

“Donovan wasn’t even there and you kept yelling at her to ‘make up her bloody mind and stop wasting their lives’, what was that about?!” John spoke quietly enough not to alarm the driver but with a distinct hiss of tension in his voice. “And where are we going now? There have been no fresh reports of blood or notes or anything? Or have you solved it and are keeping it to yourself?”

“Have not solved it, John.”

Arms uncrossed, then crossed again. “Good, because if you have and you’re keeping me on my feet running around London looking at pieces of rock just for the sake of…”

“Slate dust suspended in resin, I believe.”

John inhaled sharply but then closed his mouth tightly.

At least the sun was fully out by the time they reached the next location, the penultimate point of the sad pilgrimage.

“To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, thereby to see the minutes how they run: how many makes the hour full complete, how many hours brings about the day, how many days will finish up the year, how many years a mortal man may live.”

“Henry V, Shakespeare.” Sherlock mumbled watching John read aloud as he inadvertently stood in for a gnomon in the middle of the large sundial inset in the pavement. His hair shone silver-blond in the brightening sun as he turned with a puzzled expression.

“But no blood, or mysterious flower his time? Why are we here then?”

“They never made it this far.” His voice soft.

John started walking towards him, with a worried expression.

“Sherlock?”

“Not a crime, John, something much more grave.”

Of course he’d recognised the ‘mysterious flower’. And that much blood was hardly indicative of a violent crime, whatever an overzealous sanitation worker thought.

It was a longer ride to the South London Botanical Institute. He had fond memories of spending days at the herbarium as a younger man, the collections of lichen, mosses, liverworts and slime moulds, exquisite herbaria.

Sherlock rushed past the blooming primulas towards the medicinal border of the garden that held plants of pharmaceutical use, including the not so ‘mysterious’ but certainly not typical of London’s parks Artemisia annua, sweet wormwood, a promising star in a new medical treatment.

He spoke briefly to one of the volunteers in the garden, a woman in her sixties wearing a brightly coloured headscarf depicting sparrows as John stood aside. The woman was understandably shaken and he tried his best to reassure her it was all sorted before they took a taxi home.

“So, a misunderstanding?”

“Yes.”

“No crime? But you went through the trouble of identifying the plant, the garden it came from, the woman who had accidentally dropped it near a sculpture?”

“Correct.”

“Sherlock?”

He finished the last of the texts to Lestrade, confirming that the Met would forget the whole incident and returned his mobile to the coat pocket. “Hm?”

John took his hand and squeezed it. “You alright?”

“Of course.”

“You did hug a stranger in a botanical garden just now.”

“Her partner… wife… is in hospice care. They visited some of their favourite public artworks as a last…” He cleared his throat. “The blood came from an accidental paper cut. A love letter from when they met. Forty two years ago.” He avoided looking at John and faced the window.

They spent the evening opposite each other at the sitting room desk, John typing up another blog post, Sherlock a scathing email reply to Mycroft after unsought suggestions he ‘consult the family solicitor at once’ and not make any ‘unsound decisions’.

As always, Sherlock was acutely aware of every point of touch with John’s body. One of his ankles resting against Sherlock’s bare foot.

“John?”

“Hm?” Slow pecking at the keyboard and lip biting continued.

“Would you mind if we turned in early tonight?”

John looked up surprised, perhaps he was making a fool of himself.

“I was just thinking of… resting. In bed. Bring the laptop if you’re not finished.”

And John gave him one of his most dazzling smiles. “Not bringing the laptop, nope.”

Exhausted, sweaty, aware he had semen smeared on his chest and perhaps in his hair, Sherlock relished the repetitive gentle scratches at the back of his neck as John held him, relished hearing his soft breaths that would soon become raspy snores, relished the smell of his unwashed body, relished knowing the number of nights he’d already spent in his arms. Relished the possibility of so many more days and nights to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about the mentioned public art - Angela Conner’s “Eclipse” is located on Economist Plaza, Quentin Newark’s sundial with a quote from Shakespeare’s “Henry V” (yeah, the same play that gave us "The game's afoot.") is at Old Palace Yard, behind the Parliament. In London, of course.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock did not need to be reminded of the transience of life. The tapping of the death-watch beetle matched the beat of his own nervous heart.

The fact that John had pulled up the duvet over his head to hide from the unexpected morning sun was regrettable. Although, its positioning presented one whole side of John’s prone, nude body uncovered, a development Sherlock currently took pleasure in sitting cross-legged at the bottom of the bed.

Sunday. They’d had a late night. Which meant he had quite some time before John would wake. No complaints of ‘being analysed like a bloody crime scene’ and reprimands his attention was ‘a bit not good’. As a medical professional, and one that spent a significant part of his adult life in the military, John was truly at ease with bodies. It was intense scrutiny of his own form he found uncomfortable.

Not timid, but uncertain he deserved the attention Sherlock was ready to bestow upon him.

He never tired of observing John. His behaviour, gestures, smirks and smiles, yes. But also the small physical details particular to his compact muscular body. His gaze now traced the curve of his buttocks, the slightly coarse and darker hairs on the back of his thigh, the back of his knee, two small scars just below. He fought an urge to wrap his fingers around the thin ankle. There’d be a chance for that later in the day, John did not mind his wrists and ankles held down firmly in certain situations, not at all. For a few arousing moments such a scenario ran away in his mind and he had to shift focus back to the sleeping man.

And the man had surprisingly delectable feet.

Listening to John’s deep undisturbed breathing Sherlock slowly leaned down until his lips softly pressed against the skin of the sole. And inhaled.

Just like the nape of his head, his inner thigh, his hands, belly, every part of John had a distinct olfactory character Sherlock was determined to know intimately, and frequently.

John snored lightly and unable to restrain himself any longer Sherlock opened his mouth further and pressed his tongue forward. Just a small taste…

“If you’re licking my feet again,” John groaned from under the duvet, “you’re bringing me morning tea in bed.”

The ruse was up, no need for subterfuge now. With a moan he sucked at the skin managing to lick the rear side of John’s toes before the man flipped onto his back pulling the foot away.

“Get up here you! I could accidentally kick your teeth out!”

He stretched up to cover John’s body with his own, his lips with his own. John’s hands wrapped around his waist and pulled him closer. They kissed unhurriedly, soft bites, hums, sleepy smiles.

“Good morning John.”

“Awake long?”

“Not too long, a hour or so.”

John had slid one hand up his back and now scratched through his curls.

“Kept yourself busy?”

“Hmmm…” Sherlock closed his eyes to better enjoy the combination of hair scratching and lips against his jaw.

John laughed. “You are ridiculous, you know.”

“Not at all John. I’m a very reasonable man.”

“Nope, no you’re not, you are in fact an unreasonable man.” John pulled him down for another thorough kiss. “But you’re my man.”

And he shivered, eyes closed, aware he was blushing even after all this time. “Yes, yes John.”

Sherlock had never been one to take walks in parks, but John favoured Regent's Park on Sundays and Sherlock found he did not mind how busy with people it was when John held his hand as they strolled.

Held his hand for all of London to see.

There had been the first photographs in the press, some with quite outrageous headlines announcing ‘a secret wedding’ and ‘triplets by surrogate’. He’d watched to see if any of it would upset John, but although he never brought it up in conversation the blogger did clip two of the more flattering photographs and had suck the clippings in a thin paperback he placed under the skull on the mantel. A memento mori of sorts?

Sherlock did not need to be reminded of the transience of life. The tapping of the death-watch beetle matched the beat of his own nervous heart.

John had called him ‘his’, had used the word ‘love’, frequently, despite Sherlock not yet managing to reciprocate out loud, had accepted a change in the way they interacted, both intimately and publicly, without pause.

It had been true that all emotions, and in particular love, stood opposed to the pure, cold reason he held above all things. But it no longer was.

Sherlock was inexplicably, unreasonably and unquestionably… in love with John Watson.

“… I said, are you coming to bed? It’s midnight, I’ve a morning shift.”

Sherlock looked up from the violin bow he held across his lap realising several hours had passed. “Bed. Yes. Yes, John.”

He did do some of his best thinking wrapped in John’s warm arms. So he settled in taking a deep breath as John pulled the duvet further up over them and brought his hand into Sherlock’s curls as was his habit.

As a mental exercise, he’d often planned the murder of friends and colleagues. Well, this had some similarity, certainly he needed an immaculate strategy.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me that bit about attracting pollinators again, love.” 
> 
> John had moved down to the side of his neck and was taking his time licking and nibbling. He clearly appreciated Sherlock’s gift.

He’d arranged for a private morning viewing at the tropical nursery of Kew Gardens. One of the employees owed him a favor. The warm humid environment was a treat after their short walk in the bitter frost of the winter day. He loosened his scarf. Droplets of condensation and rustling of leaves and their steps on the path.

John leaned over the small label, hands clasped behind him, and read aloud, “Amorphophallus titanum.” His cheeks were pinking with the temperature change, tips of his fringe wet from the icy rain. He looked gorgeous. Sherlock had no doubt he’d made the right decision. Still, he was uncertain John would accept the gift.

“Some refer to it as the Sumatran Giant. It was first encountered in 1878 by Italian botanist Odoardo Beccari. One of the plants that germinated was sent here, to Kew. It flowered for the first time in 1889. And then not again until 1926 when police had to be called in to handle the disorderly crowd of spectators.”

“And this is the surprise we drove out for? A plant that flowers once in four decades?”

John was smiling which helped as Sherlock suddenly questioned his carefully thought-out plan. He made a show of straightening the stake of the metal sign.

“I… I’ve made a donation in our names. It doesn’t have to be public, but if you agree the label will be engraved.”

John looked puzzled. He glanced at the plant, then at Sherlock. Right, best carry on.

“This particular specimen’s inflorescence is due to bloom in a decade, or so. Perhaps two decades.”

“Is that right?” With a brilliant grin John turned his full attention towards him unclasping his hands and reaching out to take Sherlock hand. “And we’ll come to see it then?”

Sherlock had to clear his throat. It was the humidity.

“Yes, I’d like us to come see its spathe unfurl. Together.”

Now John was coming even closer and reaching into Sherlock’s unbuttened coat with both hands to envelop his waist. His face was close enough to kiss.

“Its spathe unfurl? Sherlock, love, did you just give me a very large flower?”

He didn’t wait for an answer and swooped in for a very thorough kiss. Sherlock was grateful they had the nursery to themselves as he could not refrain from a spot of undignified moaning.

After catching his breath he managed to add, “I must warn you John, as the spathe gradually opens, the spadix releases powerful odors to attract pollinators, insects which feed on dead animals or lay their eggs in rotting meat… the compounds include isovaleric acid, dimethyl trisulphide, trimethylamine, indole…”

John giggled and nuzzled his face against Sherlock’s. “So, you just gave me a very large flower that, in essence, stinks of rotting corpse, putrid fish and faeces.”

“It is a magnificent sight, as I’ve mentioned, in 1926 the police had to be called in due to great public interest.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Unbelievably, he’d not noticed John’s hand sliding down to pinch his buttocks. This resulted in a very loud and even less dignified yelp.

“Also, there is an interesting anecdote about its name and and alternative one used in television programmes…”

John was now massaging the pinched buttock and biting at the side of his jaw. “What, someone objected to repeatedly saying what translates to ‘gigantic cock’?”

Yes, he was ecstatic they were alone. His coat could not hide everything and John knew the use of that word had a strong effect on him.

“More precisely, ‘giant misshapen phallus’, but yes, it was an issue.”

“Tell me that bit about attracting pollinators again, love.”

John had moved down to the side of his neck and was taking his time licking and nibbling. He clearly appreciated Sherlock’s gift.

“Stop that, you’re making me dizzy.” John was attempting to read the paper with his feet stretched out in front of the blazing fire, a half-drunk cup of tea by his side.

Sherlock was pacing back and forth across the room. Three days have passed and not much had changed in their relationship. He was aware that there had not been a noted decrease in either casual touches nor sexual acts, but he had hoped, and equally dreaded, they’d discuss the change in their status. John had placed a postcard of an Amorphophallus titanum in bloom on the mantle and had at times smiled while looking at it.

Sherlock was terrified of initiating a discussion himself. He flopped down on the sofa to analyze all the pertinent data and decide on further course of action. Perhaps it was a question of letting John know there were many options and he had a choice in any future proceedings…

“Your brother keeps sending me insane messages I can’t decipher.”

The imbecile! Sherlock jumped up from the sofa, dressing gown billowing and snatched the phone from John’s hand. He quickly scrolled through the messages.

“Sherlock?! Is this all about a case of his you’re avoiding? But why does he mention your mother? Is she alright?”

Mycroft. The arrogant twat. Sniffing around and trying to insert himself where he had no place to be. The messages mentioned ‘inheritance tax’, ‘sizable estate’, “Mummy considering signing over the Breton property’ and ‘high necessity for a strategic date’.

He was going to murder him with his bare hands.

“Sherlock?”

“Never mind John. Yes, a case, boring, delete it.” And he deleted every single one of the messages and made sure his brother was blocked from sending further ones, although he was aware that wouldn’t last… British government business and all that.

“Solved it, here you go.” He dropped the phone back into John’s lap and made a quick exit towards the kitchen.

“Tea?”

And he turned to see John standing in the doorway. Forehead wrinkled in a particular way, one hand’s fingers twitching at his side.

Sherlock stood very still.

The discussion. Life plans. Long-term plans. Strategic dates. Taxes.

He became aware of a high pitched hiss invading his auditory field.

“So it wasn’t a case?” John was stepping closer and with his back to the kitchen counter Sherlock had nowhere to go.

This had to be above 20 kHz. Did John hear it, too?

“The donation to Kew? Sherlock? Was that…”

He closed his eyes and allowed the noise to envelop him.

John held him, arm tight around his waist. He placed the other hand under his chin and lifted it up forcing him to take a look. And he was smiling, his eyes gentle, happy.

“Sherlock, love, are we engaged?”

The hiss hit a level of shrill alarm.

Sherlock blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all who had the patience and didn’t give up on this fic. This may not be the most intriguing chapter but I’m attempting to get on with the plot after almost ten months of hiatus, and it’s a stumbling comeback. We can all tell where this is going, but if you have a particular London-ish quirk or case idea I might incorporate in future chapters, let me know! No promises on when I'll get the luxury of time at the keyboard...
> 
> Much thanks to Wikipedia and BBC for fun facts (and quotes I’ve appropriated) on the magnificent Amorphophallus titanum. Never had the chance to see/smell one live myself. Not sure I'd want to :-)


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world.” 
> 
> John sighed, bend down, slid his hand around Sherlock’s neck and touched his forehead with his lips. His voice was soft. 
> 
> “So, no wedding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve kicked up the rating to ‘Explicit’, to be on the safe side. Nothing this fic hasn’t explored already, but perhaps in more explicit detail in this chapter… You’ve been warned.

He closed his stinging eyes, pressed his hand against the trunk of the nearest tree to steady himself and tried to catch his breath. His fingernails dug into the soaked rough bark and somehow there was comfort in that. It was pitch dark and all he could hear was the relentless pounding of the icy rain against the muddy ground, the branches of the deciduous giant, the tombstones and mausoleums that surrounded him.

He was alone. Exhausted. Terrified. His right foot sunk ankle-deep into cold mud, his coat sodden and heavy on his shoulders. He needed a moment to himself away from the rest of London. He needed to stop. And think.

There had been shouting, running, insults, cups thrown against the wall, papers strewn over the floor, handcuffs and miserable phone calls.

Three days had passed since The Incident, as he thought of it now. Had tried not to think of it, that is. Three days and, soon approaching, three hours. Why was it always threes? And nines? Why?

He’d done everything in his power not to spend a full minute of those three days and almost three hours alone with John.

Lestrade’s well-timed phone call and quick taxi ride to the crime scene, that turned out to be just the first of the nine locations Sherlock would blaze through not stopping for rest until the case was solved, getting into a shouting match with Donovan, the broken ceramic and spilled tea in the hallway outside of the evidence room at the Met, another taxi, ’inexcusable, aggressive behavior towards a suspect’, a ride in a police response vehicle clutching handcuffs he’d easily picked, three stitches from a medic that had none of John’s gentle touch, and finally a silent stare down with his insufferable brother who’d he now owed a favour. 

John had stayed on his heels throughout most of it. With an indecipherable expression on his face.

And the bloody case was rooted in him solving a cipher! An internet dating website scammer who defrauded her ageing victims promising profitable investments in South African securities. Greed. Pensions were lost. Sherlock had been savage.

What had initially been misinterpreted by one of the victims as a child’s drawing turned out to be a starting point of a most interesting and unusual case. At its centre, caught by chance in a singular and a dangerous web, were two people who met, fell in love, and married within the month, knowing nothing of each other’s past or background. A simple, uncomplicated, quick path to a longterm relationship. How?! What is it like in those funny little brains, it must be so boring?!

He coughed and winced at the pain in his chest. He’d recently learned ‘lazy’ led to vigorous and thrilling mornings without having to leave one’s bedroom, ‘bedtime’ could mean ecstasy. Perhaps the term ‘boring’ was a means to a quick solution for a problem that had left him staggering. He had not spoken with John, had not dared to look him in the eye for a second too long.

There was solace to be found among the thousands of graves of Kensal Green. Permanence. Stillness. He knew the winding paths and could easily pull his ruined shoes out of the mud and find a brise-soleil of one of the more lavish monuments to shelter under. But the elements and physical discomfort were less important than the noteworthiness of the simple lines of the single grave he could barely discern in the darkness.

It was silly, ridiculous even, to stand by a piece of stone under which not even the complete corpse of the great man was buried! After all, the two halves of his brain were housed in two of London’s museums. Two hours, almost three…

He’d always though there must be something comforting about the number three. People always give up after three. Three days, three hours…

A hand wrapped around his wrist and pulled. And again.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Perhaps a casual…

“John? What are you doing here?” He cleared his throat and tried to present an aloof figure. Somewhat difficult with a soggy fringe in his eyes and a wheezing breath.

John was also soaked through, squinting in the rain.

“Your brother keeps tabs on your usual boltholes but he missed this one.”

“Well, Pugin’s clock tower is creepily silent these days…renovations.”

John laughed pulling him into an embrace with ease, one hand still firmly around the wrist, the other in the middle of his back. Sherlock leaned against him heavily.

“Yes, nothing creepy about cemeteries after midnight. Come on, love.”

He’d fallen asleep against John’s side in the black car his brother had sent, too fatigued to worry about any conversations to come. John hadn’t given up at three. He found him and was taking him home.

“Do you mind pulling that thing down a bit?” John asked as he sat on the edge of the bed.

Sherlock had certainly not been hiding under the duvet, it was just an effective means of keeping his now clean body warm as he waited for John to finish his shower.

“I’ve brought tea and biscuits, and we can have a proper meal in a bit.” The sound of ceramic on the wood of the bedside table and John was rearranging the duvet and settling into bed beside him and pulling the covers down to his chest.

Uncovered, Sherlock panicked and blurted out, “A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world.”

John sighed, bend down, slid his hand around Sherlock’s neck and touched his forehead with his lips. His voice was soft.

“So, no wedding.”

Another kiss. And then several more on his temple, cheek, lips.

As John’s lips touched his he shivered and his eyes closed. He tasted of tea, his tongue insistent, prodding. John shifted more of his weight to press Sherlock down into the mattress and it was indeed lovely. They kissed more, hands on arm, side, hip, thigh. A strategically placed pinch. Sherlock was loud. John was rougher than usual. Kissing, biting, moving down his body with determination and efficiency. And his voice was rougher than usual, almost a growl, as he paid attention to Sherlock’s spread thighs, fingers, tongue, saliva, teeth, everywhere.

“Bloody weddings… suits… posh twats in hats…”

He stopped talking long enough to push one of Sherlock’s thighs up and suck at his perineum, humming with delight.

“Don’t care about weddings…”

There was probably more said but Sherlock realised he could not keep track under the circumstances. John had moved up and was licking slow long stripes along his cock. He was about to either hyperventilate. Or orgasm. Or both.

“… care about you, just you… you are mine.”

The world shattered around him and he grasped at John’s shoulder with one hand. Pulse, after pulse from deep in his pelvis, chest contracting with broken breaths, hips jerking.

John kissed him messily, hurriedly, tasting salty and bitter. He resettled on top in what Sherlock could recognise was leading to one of John’s favorite ways to take his pleasure when he was impatiently desperate, straddling him and fucking between his sweat and semen covered thighs. His fists tight in Sherlock’s curls. The thrusts already erratic, kisses messy, tight grunts. And a very loud and unrestrained release.

He waited for both of them to catch their breath, but not too long as sleep was catching up with them. He made sure John’s eyes met his. He looked happy.

 “I love you, John, very much so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might recognise traces of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Adventure of the Dancing Men”. 
> 
> Commenting on the previous chapter [AlessNox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessNox/pseuds/AlessNox) suggested a deserted site Sherlock could have just for himself. So, Sherlock finds a peaceful (and not at all creepy) place for contemplation at the gravestone of Charles Babbage at Kensal Green. The ‘leaning tomb in Hampstead Cemetery’ mentioned by Mycroft “His Last Vow” was too vague for me. By the way, half of Babbage's brain is preserved at the Hunterian Museum in the Royal College of Surgeons in London, while the other half is on display in the Science Museum, London (yeah, also not creepy). ’Pugin’s clock tower’ is of course Big Ben, now silent until the renovation work has been completed, sometime in the 2020’s. 
> 
> I’m open to further Sherlockian quirks or case ideas I might incorporate in future chapters…


End file.
